


Melmë-in-Gaurhoth

by filiabelialis



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bestiality, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Other, Shapeshifting, Xenophilia, extensive artistic license taken with animal behavior, not sure if it counts as bestiality if the wolf is technically a sentient shapeshifter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-14
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-05-01 15:16:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5210678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/filiabelialis/pseuds/filiabelialis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mairon trains the wolves by living immersively with them for weeks, and finds it a little difficult to come back to themself at the end. Melkor sees an opportunity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Melmë-in-Gaurhoth

**Author's Note:**

> Extensive use of singular 'they' pronouns, because I have trouble giving binary gender to shapeshifters. Many thanks to Aria for the beta.

The first high-pitched howl pierces the darkness and sends the hairs on Melkor’s neck prickling erect. Is it that time already. He had not remembered.

 

He sets his crown to the side, safe, gleaming in wait for when he returns with his burden. Though it sets a little ache going inside his head to be parted from it, it would not be practical to wear it for this. It could be knocked off heedlessly. He shuts the door on the light, checks the lock, the spells and wards, all precautions, and lets himself be pulled by anticipation toward the howling. Void and fire, yes, he missed them, he is feeling the weeks without very keenly now, and his heavy feet move more fleetly, just a touch.

 

Up, first on a gentle slope, then a sharper angle; around wild and interlocking turns that he knows with a nearly animal instinct, the sounds are growing louder around him. He can hear orcish yells and screams filtering in weakly against the clear, resonant notes of wolves’ voices, and now the gentle, slurring murmur of fleshy feet thudding hobnailed boots and the staccato tap of claws on stone laying a layer of steady noise behind the melodic animal singing. He drinks this in, the greatest musical connoisseur in Arda for songs unconventional, and lets his own great strides fall into the rhythm. Great as they are, they become the grounding beat, and he hears the music begin to shape, unconsciously to all the lesser creatures creating the symphony, around the steady deep sound of their lord’s footfalls.

 

He comes to the hall in question as the cacophony reaches a frenzied pitch, then comes to a halt, pushes the doors wide--and all within fall silent within the space of their swing. They attend their master, and he is satisfied. He enters, slowly.

 

The wolves are clustered before him, the whole pack strong--and there are so many of them, now, with over a score of pups and juveniles. Dear Mairon has been busy. They are all fine, lovely creatures, with bright golden-yellow eyes.

 

Melkor draws himself up, scans the crowd of still animals, all watching. Mairon must be tucked back within their furry flanks, never one to lead from the front.

 

“Mairon,” Melkor’s deep voice sounds out. “My admired lieutenant, come forward.”

 

There is just enough of a pause to make Melkor think that Mairon has returned too late, and then the pack parts; a sleek, huge, tawny wolf pads forth, head low and assessing, golden eyes fixed on Melkor’s face. Melkor takes the risk that he came here to take; he locks eyes with the animal.

 

In its gaze he can see the animal instinct to contest that gesture of dominance warring with the intelligence of recognition, the growing part of the mind that ascribes meaning to his face. Good. Things are well under control, however long Mairon has lingered this time. He takes a slow step forward, still staring unblinking at the wolf. The wolf falters in its forward movement. Melkor halts as well, settles back.

 

He reaches in a smooth motion to the side, snatches an orc that did not retreat far enough, and twists its head neatly off before it can scream. The wolf’s ears go forward in interest as the scent of blood begins to suffuse the air, and Melkor suppresses a grin to keep his teeth covered. He isn’t sure which version of Mairon, the elvish Maia or the wolfish one, perks up with gluttony for gore.

 

He does not make the simple-minded mistake of holding the body forward; this would seem to any intelligent animal to be a trap. Instead he draws it close to his own mouth, bends his head without breaking the gaze he and Mairon share, and begins to lap at the blood welling up from the orc’s headless neck. When it ceases to flow freely, he begins to take small, wet-sounding, rust-flavored bites of the flesh.

 

It works wonderfully; Mairon is two lengths of their long, canine body closer to Melkor and his fresh-smelling prize, and inching closer the more that Melkor hunches his wide shoulders around the meal covetously. Melkor can feel, in the distant tension of Mairon’s coiled muscles, their growing intent to steal the morsel. Melkor makes a low warning growl in his throat, and shrinks back a fraction more, casting it as a bluff.

 

Mairon is hooked. They lunge for the meat.

 

Melkor drops the orc entirely and seizes Mairon’s ruff with both strong hands. Mairon thrashes their head around, jaws snapping, and Melkor follows the motion with an arm, crooking it around Mairon’s throat and squeezing tight, and tighter by increments. Mairon wriggles, trying to back out of it, yelping in distress, and several of the wolves start forth. Melkor, without letting go of Mairon, snaps his gaze up to look at them, and sends a roar out in their direction. They are cowed; their leader is on their own.

 

Mairon’s struggles are growing weaker, air choked off. They are not unconscious yet, and Melkor does not wish them so; but he must wait for the fight to leave them. Only when he is reasonably sure can he let go safely, but it is a delicate balance, for Mairon must still play a part in this.

 

The moment comes, in an ineffable tell of Mairon’s body; Melkor eases off, letting the wolf slump to the floor. He takes Mairon by the ruff and one haunch and turns them firmly onto their back, holding them down, taking their gaze once again.

 

Exhaustion is an apparent and increasingly human emotion in Mairon’s eyes; they flick intelligently across Melkor’s face, gathering cogence. They are remembering their cue, and Melkor lets himself smile.

 

Mairon bares their throat in submission, and Melkor lets the wolf go. They continue to lay there, beaten, and Melkor rises, approaching the pack. They understand the event, and attend their new leader’s first actions as such.

 

Though he is breathless from the struggle, Melkor throws his dark head back, and splits the echoing hall with a wild, triumphant howl. The other wolves join in, become a harmonious chorus joined in a long, unanimous note. They end with him.

 

Now, he gestures the orcs forward, and they begin the unfavorable but significantly eased task of collaring and shepherding the beasts to their more permanent winter den within the walls of Angband.  He turns to Mairon, back on four feet, though they are already making attempts to lift the front two. They are preparing to shift back, after months in one form, and it is a trying process.

 

Seized with a sudden whim, Melkor takes Mairon by the scruff again, gently. The wolf whines at their efforts to stand bipedally going to naught, but allows themself to be led along the halls at Melkor’s direction. Melkor scratches their large, soft ears for it, and leads on, coming back to the quarters abandoned earlier.

 

He unlocks the door, and feels the wolf rise behind him, balancing precariously on hind legs. Mairon is progressing quickly, and he knows he ought to pause, allow them to find their feet, but he is loathe to let his plan lose momentum. He picks the wolf up in his arms and carries them across the threshold, ignoring both their indignant whining and the soft crack and jerky shift of their bones resettling themselves slowly into a more humanoid configuration.

 

Mairon is rapidly entering a more hybrid appearance by the time Melkor deposits them, on all fours again, in the middle of the vast mattress in one corner of the room. They do not rise off of their clawed hands again. They simply turn their head, still heavily canine, and stare at Melkor nonplussed. Melkor sits down next to them, and begins to run fingers through their fur.

 

“I trust, Mairon, that you have no pressing business so soon upon your return? Leadership of your pack has been effectively transferred, and it would not do for you to go back to supervise them now.” He’s pulling ever so gently on the fur as he pets Mairon, soothing and massaging, and is rewarded with little groaning sounds each time he does so. He draws them close, and they relax, stretching across his lap and letting him work fingers down their furred body. He reclines as well, and they shift to stay in reach of his hands, curling up with long jaws close to his face. He places a kiss on their snout, at one corner of their mouth.

 

They lick him along the jaw in return, and he laughs and draws them closer, letting his mouth fall open for Mairon’s continued lapping to make its way inside, and they oblige.

 

Mairon settles on top of Melkor’s body to continue their affections. The transformation seems to have slowed--Mairon’s hands may be recognizable as clawed and hairy hands, but their legs remain as doglike haunches, tucked up neatly atop Melkor’s hips. Melkor can still feel a tail drifting lazy back and forth between his legs. He is running his hands on either side of the long snout and all the way down Mairon’s sleek flanks, and running his own tongue over Mairon’s sharp teeth between strokes of Mairon’s flat, doglike tongue over it. It’s an exquisite and rewarding feeling, and Mairon, too, shows interest; their claws are digging into Melkor’s chest. Melkor shuts his eyes and allows himself to be subsumed in the sensations.

 

He feels Mairon’s urgency grow before his, though not long before. He matches Mairon in the quickening movement of their tongue and drinks in, with rising want, the high little whines they make the more Melkor digs his scarred fingers into Mairon’s fur. Mairon has been thoroughly distracted from their arduous transformation, though Melkor can feel their shoulders settling wide again and their snout shortening as their body remembers the version of itself that most often feels themself flush against Melkor’s frame this way.

 

Melkor should allow the transformation to complete in its own time. He knows this is a difficult process for Mairon, malleable as they are, having been settled in one shape for weeks--far longer than is their wont. But Melkor is too intrigued by the opportunity for this new, unusual diversion of the flesh. He feels an instinctive revulsion at the prospect as well, knowing in some part of his spirit that lies even beneath his own conscious making that the Valar, the Maiar, the Children of Iluvatar are not meant to lie with beasts, and Mairon’s present form is close enough to stir the feeling from whatever well in his mind houses it. And yet, the revulsion itself, and his knowledge of its provenance, goad him in turn toward his intent; this is a part of himself that is of Eru’s making, not his own, and he would weed it out. He has never regretted any of his earlier, similar attempts to buck these subconscious warnings, from the first time his stomach turned at taking life to his monumental hesitance to touch the Silmarils.

 

And so, he unseats Mairon from their place atop him, even as they wail a small, canine protest. He strokes their back, soothing and murmuring, as he settles himself behind them, shifts his clothing enough to one side for his purpose. Mairon, comprehending as well, settles, and presents their haunches high. He laughs at Mairon’s undisguised want--they are often like that, for him, though not usually without some small show of coyness. They do it because they know he likes it, the edge to their coupling that suggests he is altering an innocent thing and staining it newly each time; but this animal frankness is refreshing, and stirs a joyful heat in his belly. Mairon like this is already his creature, has been for so long that they will be taken readily and in whatever perverse way Melkor desires.

 

Melkor presses his face into their ruff, breathing deeply of their scent, inhuman, stained with sweat and dirt and wild northern air. He slips blindly inside, under Mairon’s tail. Mairon has chosen to wear a cunt this time, he thinks, which he likes--it allows for a little more leeway in how rough he can be. He sinks in deep; Mairon gives a little yelp, but, as Melkor expected, does not draw away.

 

Once again it is easy to drown in the feeling of Mairon’s body; Mairon is warm around his cock and his movements inside them are soothing and rhythmic, and the remaining fur, wherever it touches his skin, is silky beneath its surface layer of paintbrush coarseness. He leans forward, trying to cover them with as much of his body as he can, mounting them as solidly as possible. He feels a clawed hand wrap fervently around his wrist where it is braced near Mairon’s shoulder and allows that too, rewards that little show of desperation with longer thrusts. Mairon nearly howls.

 

Melkor laughs; this was a magnificent idea. Mairon is clearly enjoying themself, panting hard underneath him, though the sounds they make are becoming gradually less wolflike. The tawny fur is retreating from Mairon’s pale, muscular back like a lowering tide. He thinks, though he may be imagining it, that even Mairon’s cunt is reshaping itself, ever so slightly, around him, and the idea makes him both proud of Mairon’s skill and nearly mindless with desire. Hardly fair, that they should remain so collected.

 

“I’m surprised you can concentrate enough to change like this, little one,” he purrs into one of Mairon’s still-pointed ears. He gets in response a growl that is more human than wolf, and Mairon pushing their haunches back more firmly against his hips, determined, contrary. Delightful creature. Melkor slows his thrusts, drawing his skin against Mairon’s slickness with deliberation enough to drag singing pleasure out of both of their nerves, forcing Mairon to focus on the places where their bodies join.

 

“I hope I do not fail to hold your attention,” he continues, with effort. Mairon does not respond; they began shivering all over with the change in Melkor’s pace, and they continue to do so. It is only when the shivering reaches a particularly violent pitch, and abruptly ends in a storm of panting, that Melkor realizes it was one quiet, prolonged climax. The revelation urges him to resume his earlier, more violent pace. He loves learning the subtly different ways Mairon comes, while wearing different forms. He cannot remember an instance where any two were quite alike.

 

Rather than picking up speed, though, he stops, savoring the sight. Mairon has nearly reverted fully. Their curving hips and shoulders are wider, and the hair on Mairon’s back is no longer fur but long, light-colored tresses, flowing from Mairon’s head. The hand still gripping weakly at his wrist still has long, clawlike nails, however, and Mairon’s mouth, slightly open and breathing hard, reveals sharp teeth. Mairon will likely retain these features for some time, Melkor knows from experience of them; they will feel the residue of their animal nature in proportion to how long they held that nature at the forefront of themself. They were a wolf for weeks, ergo they will be bestial for days.

 

Melkor is looking forward to it.

 

He untangles his wrist from Mairon’s grasp to settle back, hands bracing Mairon’s hips against his. Mairon, still overcome, groans softly in anticipation, and settles their legs--humanoid, on their knees now instead of padded feet--wider for stability. Mairon is obedient as a dog to all their master’s demands. Melkor caresses their back, an unspoken praise, and then begins to thrust again, giving in to how much and deeply he wants.

 

Now it is Mairon’s disciplined stillness that drives him to wildness. He can feel Mairon start to shiver again, overwhelmed, overstimulated, wrung out, and he drives in harder. He can feel their knees begin to shake, though they barely make a sound, and it tears a snarl from his throat. He wants to tear into Mairon a little, and does, pulling abbreviated little screams out of them by clawing deep furrows in their hips. He thinks something of Mairon’s bestial nature must have infected him; he wishes he could mount Mairon as a wolf himself, grip Mairon’s scruff between his sharp teeth and fuck them with abandon. The shift does not come as easily to him anymore, but with such keen want he summons some part of the will. His jaw lengthens and becomes more powerful, and he sinks teeth into Mairon’s bare shoulder, making them scream in earnest. His cock grows knotted; he can feel Mairon stretch tight around him, though still they do not shy away. If anything, their cries grow more uninhibited, and Melkor lets that carry him over the edge. His vision shatters into sparks of light; he spills in Mairon for what feels like minutes on end, even as he relinquishes the effort to distort his shape, falling back into his more customary form. He collapses to one side on the mattress, and Mairon, boneless, falls with him.

 

After a moment to collect his breath, he gathers them close, runs his hands up bare, smooth belly and soft breasts and fine, small throat. The bite from his wolf teeth has pierced a wound in Mairon’s shoulder, and he laps a trickle of blood from it, spurring Mairon to groan and shift their hips back against Melkor’s softening cock. He hums into their skin, satisfied and amused at their want.

 

“You will be asleep soon,” he murmurs to them, and feels them relax fractionally, conceding that Melkor knows this habit of theirs. “As well you deserve, my pet. Your service to me remains impeccable.”

  
“Thank you, Lord,” Mairon says, voice rough. The first words they’ve managed since returning, and Melkor does not expect eloquence. He places a kiss on their wound, and draws them closer to sleep. All is as it should be. His favorite among his servants is with him again, and both his forces and his knowledge have grown on this day.


End file.
